


Tomorrow Night

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (the bottom Dean is just implied/talked about), Bottom Dean Winchester, Clothed Sex, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6018508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dean and Castiel were so worked up about each other that they couldn't even get out of their clothing, and the one time they finally did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow Night

**Author's Note:**

> Oh God, I don't even remember the genesis of this. I think [Adara](http://nestingangels.tumblr.com) and [Grace](http://leknope.tumblr.com) enabled me? This is utterly self-indulgent, utterly plotless porn and a bit of emotion.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [sunbeamdean](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

**I.**

“Fuck.”

“All right,” Castiel agrees. Anything, so long as Dean stays where he is: planted between Castiel’s thighs, open-mouthed and warm.

Gratifyingly, Dean hides a chuckle in the curve of Castiel’s still-clothed shoulder. “I didn’t,” he says, and then cuts himself off, pressing two slow kisses under Castiel’s ear. The careful pressure makes Castiel ache, as if his body hasn’t caught on that Dean is right here and he doesn’t need to yearn so badly anymore.

Castiel had hoped. Inexpertly, maybe—hope always was a gift meant for humans, not part of the angelic repertoire. But with the Darkness banished and Lucifer flung into the cosmological stratosphere alongside her, he had wondered at the absence of a more pressing matter between himself and Dean. He had imagined, and considered, and hesitated.

“Come here,” Dean finally says. He pulls Castiel forward into a kiss. Their fourth, by Castiel’s count.

It’s musty and ill-lit in this corner of the library. The spines of an eighteenth-century series of bestiaries are digging into Castiel’s shoulder blades. Dean is dressed in no fewer than three layers. His hands curl into the front of Castiel’s shirt—borrowed from Sam, and too big on him—and his lips part under Castiel’s.

There’s no strategizing here. Castiel has no tactics. All he knows is the eager press of Dean up against him, the pounding heat of his own pulse in his ears. The wet noise of Dean sucking at his lower lip, and Castiel keeps reaching for him. “Dean,” he says stupidly.

“Gonna get you naked next time,” Dean promises. His voice, gruff, comes out on the heels of a shaky breath. Yes. There should be more to this, maybe; a different setting, bare skin, planning and preparation.

“I’ll get myself naked.” Castiel pulls Dean in closer, hands at the backs of his thighs. “And you too, I hope.”

“God,” Dean says on a laugh. “Jesus, yeah. I didn’t think you’d—”

“I would,” Castiel assures him. He shifts, and their bodies slot together, Dean’s narrow hips caught in the space that opens up for him when Castiel leans back. Dean leans with him, chasing another kiss, and his erection presses firm and just right to Castiel’s, and a whine catches in Castiel’s throat.

Dean’s so close that his shudder rumbles through Castiel’s bones, too. “Yeah.” His hands tighten into fists against Castiel’s chest. He rolls his hips, and Castiel gasps, kisses him again. They move together, rocking in long movements. Pleasure builds, inexorable like a rising flood, and Castiel goes under.

It doesn’t take long. A handful of minutes; Castiel could have calculated it exactly if his grace remained intact. Instead, he drinks in the rasp of Dean’s voice, the _Cas, Cas, come on_ indistinct into the corner of Castiel’s mouth where they haven’t managed to part, and he relishes the feel of each twitch, the spill of warmth accompanying Dean’s orgasm. It’s the flutter of Dean’s eyelashes against his neck that pulls Castiel with him, two books clattering to the floor with the arch of his body.

“Man,” Dean says. He sounds syrupy with contentment. “I should be embarrassed. Next time’s gonna be insane.”

Castiel agrees by means of one more kiss. It’s their seventh. He intends to lose count.

 

**II.**

_Next time_ is less than six hours later. It had been Sam’s turn to make dinner, and Castiel had noticed Sam noticing Dean’s distraction when Dean uncomplainingly ate a meal whose only meat-based component was chicken breast.

He’s hardly one to talk about distraction, however. They’ve made it as far as Dean’s room, the door swinging shut hard behind them, and Dean is on him. Hands cupping Castiel’s face, mouth at the lines of his clavicle, fierce and as insatiable as if what passed between them in the library was years rather than hours ago.

“You said,” Castiel says, pushing his fingers through Dean’s hair where it’s longest on the top, “something about taking off our clothes.”

“Oh, God, yeah,” Dean says, nearly a moan. He’s quick to reach between them and pop the button on the fly of Castiel’s jeans, a fresh pair. “Wanna get my hands all over you.”

Castiel sucks in a breath. His chest feels too light after, and so he hangs onto the back of Dean’s neck even as Dean drops to his knees, as the humidity of his breath makes Castiel’s cock throb once, twice against the fabric of his boxers.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Yeah. I love your hands.”

The hands in question settle, bracketing Castiel’s hips. He sags against the door, swallowing the noise that wants to tear out of him when Dean noses at the open vee of his pants.

“Your mouth too,” Castiel adds.

Dean laughs, and the huff of air makes Castiel’s hips jerk. It’s incredible, the minutia of his response to such small things when Dean is around, when all his senses are tuned to the wavelength of Dean’s slow smile. To the way Dean mouths at the shape of Castiel through cotton and Castiel’s head goes _thunk_ against the door, his free hand scrambling to take hold of the door frame.

“Your mouth,” Castiel repeats with some effort. “I like the shape of it. I like the things you say. I want it on my skin.”

“ _Jesus._ ” The word sounds scraped raw, and Dean kisses all along the side of Castiel’s cock. “Yeah, god, I wanna taste you.”

Castiel whimpers, his fingertips digging into the soft and freckled skin where it slopes down to Dean’s back and shoulders.

Dean’s smile spreads slow against the inner curve of Castiel’s thigh. He slips his hands closer together, to cup Castiel’s erection and his balls and to make him tremble, and when he tugs Castiel’s boxers down and takes him in, one smooth motion, Castiel loses control.

“Oh,” he says, panting through it. He’s dizzied by the stretch of Dean’s throat under the pads of his fingers, the long dark ends of Dean’s eyelashes as they lift and then drop again.

“Well,” Dean says. His mouth is wet and shining. “I guess that’s another rain check.”

 

**III.**

It's been a long and grueling hunt. Sam is sporting a black eye, and Dean has acquired a limp, though he won’t admit to it.

They’re grimy, sweaty, bloody as they tumble back into the motel room to gather their things. Castiel is determined not to care, and he’s determined to stop Dean from caring too.

“Oh, c’mon.” Dean fumbles with Castiel’s buttons, then gives up. There’s a smear of something near-black across the rise of his cheekbone. “Is this really—”

“Isn’t this why you asked Sam to follow up with the _Gazette_?”

“I, uh.” Dean pauses, pulling a face. “That was before I ganked that straggler. I gotta take a year-long shower.”

“Soon,” Castiel says. He presses his face into the hollow of Dean’s throat and inhales the smell of his fresh sweat, and when he works his hand into the front of Dean’s well-worn jeans, he finds that Dean is growing hard in his palm. Right there, filling up so that Castiel can tighten his fingers and listen to the hitch in Dean’s breath.

Dean softens. He kisses Castiel’s temple despite the sweat in his hair. “I was gonna get all nice and clean, you know. Since it’s kinda been a while, and we wanted—well, I wanted to finally get you naked.”

“I want that too,” Castiel says. But he wants this, too. At least, he can’t give it up while he has it: Dean’s skin hot and sleek as the new calluses on Castiel’s palm catch and drag, friction enough that Dean groans and shoves up into the touch. “I don’t want there to be anything between us.”

Dean makes a sound, all round edges rolling out of his half-open mouth. “Wanna—wanna get you in me.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, the image stark and bright and enough to pull him most of the way to arousal as well, “yeah. Yeah, Dean.”

In a sudden frenzy, he gathers Dean onto his lap, the mess of sheets where they’d shared this uncomfortable bed the night before. He strokes Dean slow until he doesn’t, until Dean’s bitten-off noises are so ragged, so gorgeous where they’re riding Dean’s breath into his ear that he’s moving fast, chasing the rhythm of Dean’s hips.

“I will,” he says, his fingers tight in the canvas of Dean’s jacket. “Dean.”

Dean comes into the spaces between Castiel’s fingers, shivering in his arms.

 

**IV.**

Dean’s bed isn’t big, but there’s enough space to spread Dean out and kiss him. Castiel can lace their fingers together and hold Dean in place, pushing his T-shirt up and out of the way so that Dean’s nipples stiffen under his mouth.

Pliant for the moment, Dean pants. He shifts restlessly, arches his back and strokes his fingers through Castiel’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

They’re not undressed yet, but Castiel has plans. They begin with the tension in Dean’s shoulders and continue all the way down to where he can see the outline of Dean’s erection, solidly tempting in his drawstring pajama pants. Castiel considers it, abstractly startled at the saliva collecting in his mouth simply from looking.

That, naturally, is when Dean ceases to be cooperative.

He grins up at Castiel, white sharp teeth at the corners of his smile, and tightens his hands around Castiel’s.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says.

Dean’s smile broadens and grows crooked. “Hey,” he answers. With a tug and some quick determination, he flips them, rolling them over until he’s straddling Castiel’s waist.

In only boxers and one of Dean’s discarded shirts, just too small on him, Castiel has so little defense. Dean’s right _there_ , bearing down on him with his cock sliding against Castiel’s, just the two layers of thin cloth and Castiel is the one panting.

“Look,” Dean murmurs. He’s following his own advice, attention trained on the space between them where their chests are rising and falling, where the straining shapes of their erections are pressed tight together.

Castiel nods, speechless.

“I could just—”

It’s easy for Dean to wriggle out of his pajama bottoms, just until the lean muscles of his thighs are bare and Castiel can see how hard he is. “Oh,” Castiel says faintly.

“Fuck.” Dean laughs, shaky. “We’ve got no fuckin’ self-control, babe.”

“I just want you so badly,” Castiel says, shocked into bare-faced honesty. “Come here.” It’s only right that Dean’s plan, whatever it was, suffer the same fate as Castiel’s: derailed by the reality of their desire.

And Dean listens to him. He spreads himself out over Castiel, pushing Castiel’s knees up and aligning himself, easy, delicate, until his cock is pushing against the heaviness of Castiel’s balls. He huffs out a long breath.

“Hey,” Castiel says. He considers, and then he draws his legs together. The fabric of his boxers is flimsy enough that the answering twitch of Dean’s erection resonates all the way to Castiel’s central nervous system.

“I was gonna.” Dean moans, thrusting up into the new tightness that’s there. Castiel hadn’t expected how good it would feel, and he moans in answer, hooking his ankle around the back of Dean’s knee. “I had all these—I was gonna make you feel so good, I wanted to—”

“I feel good.” Castiel draws him in nearer still. It _is_ good, the steady rocking slide of Dean’s cock between his legs, the pressure that doesn’t let up where they’re pressed to each other. “We have time.”

“Yeah.” Eased, Dean kisses him on the mouth, and then the jaw, and then the neck. “Yeah.”

They stay like that, curled around each other in their pajamas. Time lengthens around them, catching and stretching on the coiling pleasure in the pit of Castiel’s stomach and the nonsense endearments Dean speaks into his throat where he thinks Castiel can’t hear. When Dean comes, he sighs. Castiel follows with Dean’s smile tucked against his chest.

 

**V.**

Dean stretches out, long and beautiful on the bedspread. He’s exhausted; Castiel can feel it, can nearly feel the weariness creeping into his own muscles. Fourteen hours of research is too much for any human, freshly-minted or otherwise.

“May I?” Castiel settles with his knees to either side of Dean’s hips, palms flat on Dean’s back.

“Mm.” From this angle, Castiel can see approximately one third of Dean’s mouth as it curves upward.

Castiel takes that as a yes. He knows human musculature, and he knows Dean’s in particular. He crafted those muscle fibers himself, placed each attachment and tendon. So when he pushes in his thumbs and rolls them down along the side of Dean’s spine, Dean’s rumble of pleasure is gratifying, but no surprise.

The reaction of his own body, however, does startle him. The shiver of baser interest makes him pause for a moment, focusing on the whorl of arousal that settles between his legs. He should have known. Dean always affects him like this.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is thick with his tiredness, but he props himself up on an elbow and squints back at Castiel.

“Yeah.” Castiel licks his lips. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a second’s pause, and then Dean’s face breaks into a smile. “Definitely don’t be sorry.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, rocks deliberately down against the meaty swell of Dean’s ass. “No?”

Dean laughs, apparently smug. “Dude, no.”

“I’m undisciplined around you,” Castiel grumbles. But he’s rearranging himself, lining himself up along the pathway of Dean’s spine so that he can kiss the spot behind Dean’s ear, fond.

“Hey.” Dean shifts slightly, pushing his hips up so that Castiel’s half-erection catches against the cleft of his ass where it’s filling out his boxer-briefs, and Castiel gasps in obedient turn. “I like it. Anyway, next time we’re gonna do this right.”

Castiel chuckles, now. “There have been quite a few next times,” he says, “but I would like to fuck you, Dean.”

“ _God._ ” Dean shudders hard. There’s a movement, and a moment later Castiel realizes it’s Dean working a hand between himself and the bed, pressing the heel of his palm against his arousal. “Yeah. Yeah, this—next time, this time I fuckin’ mean it. Don’t even care what we do, just wanna see all of you.”

With his grace, Castiel would make that happen in an instant. He would will their clothing away and revel in all six feet of Dean’s skin, its scars and freckles and perpetual farmer’s tan.

As it is, he’s human, and he’s susceptible to the temptations of _now_. To the rise of Dean’s body as it meets him when he grinds down, to watching the muscles of Dean’s bicep shift as he works himself.

Castiel is human, and Dean makes the most perfect noises in the world when he’s this tired and when he touches himself with Castiel’s breath in his ear. He meets the inelegant thrusts of Castiel’s hips down against the swell where thigh meets buttock. And when Dean orgasms into his own palm, shaking hard under the weight of Castiel’s body, the arch of his back is enough to push Castiel over the same precipice.

“Shit,” Dean says, “we really suck at getting naked.”

Castiel, drained and sticky, laughs louder than he has since Uriel was his companion.

 

**&.**

Ten minutes later, Dean has Castiel’s clean hand in his own and he’s pulling him down the hallway.

“I don’t even care,” he says. “Sam can get over it. I’m gonna see you in the buff if it kills me.”

Castiel would echo the sentiment, but he doesn’t need to. They’ve reached the bathroom and Dean is pulling his stained T-shirt over his head and peeling himself out of his underwear.

Technically, it’s nothing new. Castiel made this body. He watched over it and sewed its tissues back together. _Naked_ shouldn’t mean anything to him.

But this is Dean, watching him with anticipation and a skittishness to his expression that Castiel identifies, after a moment, as nervousness. He’s broad-shouldered and long-legged and he tapers down neatly, so well-formed and sweet to look upon that Castiel’s stepping in, wanting to touch him, before he can help himself.

“Hey.” Dean stops him with a hand at his chest. “This is a no-clothes zone, buster.”

“Right.” Castiel pauses, nods. He divests himself of his jeans and T-shirt and, almost instantly, gets his reward: Dean slinging an arm around his neck, smiling into his mouth and then kissing him easily, bare chests just touching. He feels Dean’s toes nudge his own where they’re standing on the tile, scrubbed and bleached just a week ago by Dean himself.

“Fuck,” Dean groans.

Castiel kisses him again just to have the shadow of that word in his mouth, then asks, “What?”

“All that talk and there’s no way I can get it up again. I’m pretty sure I’m about to sleep for fourteen hours minimum.”

Castiel smiles, surprising himself with the broadness of it. “As you’ve said.” He tips his head forward until their foreheads touch. “Next time.”

Dean won’t settle and get into the shower until he’s extracted a pinky promise. Castiel indulges him. As always.


End file.
